“Leigh went in the front door like a Christian. As to 213 Pryor,” he hesitated a moment. “I’ll tell you later about him.”
“Take this chair. I must help the children,” Virginia said cordially as she rose and left the kitchen.
Leigh Shirley was coming from the front hall as she entered the dining room, and Virginia paused a moment to look at her. Something about Leigh made most people want more than a glance. Tonight, as she stood in the doorway, Virginia could think of nothing but the pink roses that grew in the rose garden of the old Thaine mansion house of her girlhood. A vision swept across her memory of Asher Aydelot—just Thaine’s age then—of a moonlit night, sweet with the odor of many blossoms, and the tinkling waters of the fountain in the rose garden, and herself a happy young girl.
Leigh’s fair face was set in the golden brown shadows of her hair. On either side of her square white forehead the sunny ripples kept the only memory of the golden curls of babyhood. The darker eyebrows and heavy lashes and the deep violet-blue eyes, the pink bloom of the cheeks, and the resolute mouth gave to Leigh’s face all the charm of the sweet young girl. But the deeper charm that claimed the steady gaze lay in the spirit back of the face, in the self-reliance and penetrating power, combined with something of the artist’s dreams; and swayed altogether by genuine good nature and good will.
Tonight she wore a simple white gown revealing her white throat and the line of her neck and shoulder. White flowers nestled in the folds of her hair, and the whole effect enhanced the dainty coloring of cheeks and lips. Leigh had an artist’s eye in dress and knew by instinct what to 214 wear. She had an artist’s hand also, as her mother had had before her, and was far more skilled in the painting of prairie landscapes than any of the Grass River folk dreamed of.
Thaine was busy on the top of the stepladder and did not see Leigh as she came in. Jo Bennington, who was holding sprays of spirea for him to festoon above the window, stared at Leigh until Thaine, waiting for the flowers, turned to see the pink-cheeked living picture framed against the shadows of the hall behind her.
“I thought you were coming early to help us. This Gimpke girl doesn’t know how to do a thing,” Jo exclaimed.
If her voice was a trifle high-pitched it was not out of keeping with her brilliant coloring and dashing manners. Even the thoughtless rebuke of the Gimpke girl seemed excusable from her lips, and Rosie Gimpke looked at her with unblinking eyes.
“You can put on my apron and finish, but don’t change a thing, now mind. I’ll go and dress. I brought my whole wardrobe over early in the week,” Jo rattled on, and thrusting her gingham apron into Leigh’s hands she dashed through the hall toward the stairway.
Rosie Gimpke, the tow-headed image of her mother, Gretchen Wyker, stared at Leigh, who smiled back at her. Rosie was stupid and ignorant, but she knew the difference between Jo Bennington’s frown and Leigh Shirley’s smile. A saving thing, the smile of good will, and worth its cost in any market.